Whoufflé Oneshots
by Woody Allen Jesus
Summary: A series of oneshots between Clara and the Eleventh Doctor. These will range from fluff to angst, though mostly will be light-hearted. Ratings won't exceed a T. Feel free to suggest any situations you'd like me to write, plus I love hearing any feedback.
1. Chapter 1: Baking Together

**Chapter One: Baking Together**

"Do these peaks look soft enough to you?"

The Doctor peered over Clara's shoulder at the mixing bowl. He hadn't the faintest idea what beaten egg whites were supposed to look like, but he nodded confidently in approval. "Yep. Perfect."

She sighed with relief. "Okay, then. Who knows, maybe the recipe might finally work this time." She tilted her head back to look up at him. "Can you pass the sugar over?"

The Doctor obediently fetched it for her. She took it from him and turned the egg mixer back on to a low setting. "The recipe says to add gradually," she said uncertainly, looking at the sheet with her lips pursed. "How gradually is gradually?"

The Doctor shrugged. In truth baking was one of the few things he didn't consider himself an authority on. In fact, that went for food preparation in general. Anything that wasn't microwaveable, he was usually content to leave preparation of to someone more skilled than he. Of all Earth's many inventions, the microwave was up there with the bowtie as one of his favourites. "I don't know," he said. "Just do what you think looks right."

"But I always get it _wrong._ " Clara huffed fretfully. "Okay, I'll just add it as slowly as I can. That can't go wrong… hopefully."

She turned back to her mixture. The Doctor sidled casually up behind her. She did seem very tense to him. They were in her kitchen in the Maitland household, on their own together- the Maitlands had long since learned to steer well clear of the kitchen when their nanny was doing any baking, though on this occasion they were actually out of the house, leaving the pair of them alone. Once again, Clara was trying to recreate her late mother's soufflé recipe- she had many times lain waste to the TARDIS' kitchen, making his time machine dislike her even more than it already did, in pursuit of this endeavour, so the Doctor was by now well used to how frustrated she could get by the task. Still, this time, he'd imagined it might be more fun. This time, she had enlisted him as a 'second opinion,' which the Doctor had happily agreed to, not because he thought his opinion would in any way be helpful, but because he wanted to spend time with her.

He let his arms slip round her waist. Clara started just a little. "Don't surprise me like that," she exclaimed. "Not while I'm- oh, for goodness' sake-"

The mixture had started to splash over just a little. Hastily the Doctor drew his hands away, but this didn't seem to help. "No, don't move me again, I'll- _ugh!_ " A glob of egg white landed on the countertop. "Okay, just don't move."

Obediently, the Doctor desisted, staying in place with his arms clasped loosely round her middle, watching as she tensely continued to add sugar at a painstakingly slow rate, until at last the peaks forming in the mixture became stiff and glossy as the recipe described. Clara shut off the mixer with a sigh and set it to one side. "That looks about right," she mumbled, turning to him. "Who'd have thought baking could be so stressful?"

She caught sight of his grin. "What? What is it?"

She had egg white on her nose. Just right on the tip. It looked hilarious, hilarious and adorable. The Doctor's smile only broadened at her confusion. "Have I got something on my face?" She probed self-consciously around, following where his eyes were. "Is it on my nose?"

Clara went cross-eyed as she tried to spot the offending spot. Now she looked even more adorable. The Doctor laughed. "Here. Let me."

He bent down and kissed the tip of her nose. "There. All gone."

Clara giggled. She tilted her face upwards and captured his lips with her own before he could draw away. Hers tasted just faintly of the sugary dessert mix, and they parted easily beneath his as he reached up to free her hair from the loose bun she always wore it when baking, allowing it to cascade down around her shoulders and letting his fingers trail through it loosely. She slipped her arms round his neck as his hands swiftly drifted downwards, arriving at the hem of her skirt. She pulled back just a little, enough that their lips were no longer touching, and looked up at him sceptically. "Really?"

"Well," the Doctor said with a meaningful nod towards the ceiling, "we _do_ have an empty house…"

A playful smirk began to form on Clara's lips. She kissed him again, lightly, teasingly, far too briefly before she slipped away from him and back to the countertop. "Let me put the mix in the tray and put it in the oven first."

She did so with a flourish, distributing the mix with a lot more casualness than she had completed the other steps of the recipe. The Doctor rather thought she bent down with wholly unnecessary aplomb, and right in front of his wandering eyes, as she placed the tray in the oven and stood up with a final cursory look at the recipe. "'30-35 minutes advised'" she read out. She turned to him with a sultry smirk. "Tell me, what can you do in thirty-five minutes?"

The Doctor sidled up to her. He really had to start baking with Clara more often. "I'd really rather demonstrate than just tell you…"

 **So this was a pretty light chapter to start off on. There will be some less fluffy chapters to come, but most won't be too heavy. Hopefully this is us off to a good start. I'm still taking suggestions for future chapters, if anyone has any they particularly want to see. :)**


	2. Chapter 2: Shortness

**Chapter Two: Shortness**

Clara hated being short.

She had hated it from the moment she'd become aware of it. From her earliest memories onwards, it had caused her nothing but irritation. Her parents, both also small in stature and both annoyingly okay with it, had done their best to try and persuade her that it wasn't as much of a handicap as she made it out to be. "Some boys really like short girls," her mother had told her once.

"I don't care," Clara had replied huffily, albeit truthfully. "I don't like it, that's what matters."

"At least you'll end up taller than me," her mother had pointed out. That was true. Clara's mother had been tiny, even shorter than she was now. Countless times, she'd made this point to try and cheer her up, by reminding her that someday, there would at least be someone she could count herself as taller than.

Then her mother had died, before she'd grown up. She'd never got to see for herself that she was right.

It had caused an excess of problems throughout her childhood. Her formative years had been spent standing on stools and chairs to reach things down- for some reason everything she wanted seemed to gravitate towards the highest shelves. Clara's best friend when she was six had been Grace Barton, who had been bookish like her but one of the tallest pupils in her class. When she'd asked Clara to partner with her for the three-legged race on sports day, she'd been too polite to say no, though even in her six-year-old brain the mechanics of the situation hadn't escaped her. Landing sprawling on the grass, being dragged in the wake of her annoyingly large friend whilst parents around them fanatically shouted encouragement at their sensibly-sized offspring, Clara had decided then and there that being short was going to be bane of her life.

The next few years after that had seen more problems develop. Every rollercoaster she didn't meet the requirement for had felt like a slap in the face, jealously watching as her friends shrieked with excitement aboard the ride. Clara was already fairly miserable about her height when she reached secondary school, where it developed into an even more annoying problem- suddenly all her friends seemed to be shooting up, whilst she was stuck being tiny. Growth spurts came later to her than they did to most of her classmates; even then they barely qualified as spurts, and she stayed infuriatingly small. At least that one line about boys appreciating short girls had proven to be reasonably true. Still, she'd loathed being short in secondary school in particular. Being mistaken for a first-year when she was fourteen, suffering the indignity of continuing to go shopping in the 'girls' section in department stores, it all mounted up so that by the time she was told by Jenny Wilson in her GCSE year that she was 'so jealous' of her because 'guys loved short girls', Clara had felt ready to punch her for her seeming lack of sympathy for her plight.

Admittedly, being short didn't cause quite so many problems in the adult world, though it still was a touchy subject for Clara. She ended up being five foot one and a half, a shade taller than her mother had been but still most unreasonably small in her view. Clara's biggest worry about her height was that it would cause her problems when she finally finished her training and became a teacher- she would never be able to command respect being so tiny and unimposing. Try though she might, she continued in her twenties to be just as self-conscious about it as she'd been in her teens.

Then Clara met the Doctor. The Doctor was himself most irritatingly tall, but through his own brand of sincerity and affection he managed to make her self-consciousness dissipate. He'd tell her between kisses that she was beautiful just the way she was, something she hadn't been used to hearing before, and something that made Clara for the first time look at her height as something to be rather pleased about. He liked it, and she was inclined to trust in his opinion.

On the other hand, the Doctor did tease her terribly. Clara couldn't be mad at him for more than a few seconds for it, but all the practical problems of her height seemed to amuse him more than anything else in the world. Once he'd discovered her penchant for baking soufflés, he'd started deliberately putting ingredients on the highest shelves, just so he could watch and chuckle as she futilely tried to get them down before offering to help her out. He'd laugh as well as she stood on her tiptoes to try and kiss him without him having to bend down too far, and his laughter would only increase at the grumpy expression on her face; he'd reach out with his two index fingers and tweak the corners of her lips up into a smile, before he'd pick her up so they were at a similar altitude and meet them with his own.

"Clara, can you pass me that spanner? It's just down there, by the board- see, there, the one with the flashing lights."

He was pointing down into an open space beneath the floor of the console room. Clara looked at the drop down, lowered herself in and let herself fall to the level below. She picked up the spanner and tossed it up to him as he continued working on the maintenance of his ship. "It's there beside you. When are we going to-"

Clara stopped abruptly. Oh no. Surely not. She reached up towards the rim of the opening, trying to grasp hold of the TARDIS' flooring. She couldn't. It was too far, and she was too short.

"Doctor?" She backed off, looking round to see if there was anything she could stand on. There wasn't. Dammit. She could almost imagine the ship laughing at her, delighting in confounding her once more.

"Mmmh?" He continued to work on unperturbed. "What is it?"

"Could you… could you give me a hand?" she asked tentatively.

She heard a rattle as he dropped something, then he appeared over the opening, looking down at her curiously. "Of course," he said in bemusement. "With what?"

Clara felt herself blush furiously. "I'm stuck," she said sheepishly.

The Doctor's eyes widened. He stared for a moment, then began to laugh, clutching his sides as if worried they might split. Clara blushed further, then rolled her eyes as he sank to the floor of the TARDIS, nearly crying with mirth. Alright, it wasn't that funny. Maybe she should stick him down a hole somewhere, see how he liked it. "Shut up," she said huffily. "It's not funny."

" _It's hilarious!"_ He continued to roll around on the floor laughing for a good five minutes before he finally sat up and reached down towards her. "Alright, give me your hand, then. Assuming you can reach."

Once he'd successfully extricated her, she sat down on the floor of the TARDIS, back to the console, looking sullenly at the floor. "I'm sorry for laughing at you so much," the Doctor said. He'd repaired what needed to be repaired on the ship, and now stood a few feet away looking down at her caringly. "If that's what you're annoyed about."

Clara sighed. "I'm sick of being short," she complained. "Tell me, you'd know- there's got to be some way in the future they can make you taller, right? Not much, just a few inches, so I don't feel so silly…"

She lowered her gaze grumpily to the floor once more. She heard him move, then a moment later felt him slide down the console to sit beside her and his left arm slip gently round her shoulders. "I honestly don't know if there is," he said. "But would you really want to change yourself? You're my beautiful soufflé girl, I wouldn't change a thing about you."

Clara kept up her grumpy stare, but her heart fluttered slightly at his words. "You mean it?"

"Of course I do…" He cupped her face gently with one hand, turning her head gently to face towards him. He was smiling fondly at her, his old eyes soft and sincere. "Come on. Give us a smile. Just a little one." He did his thing, gently raising the corners of her mouth, until they stayed up without any need for his support. Clara couldn't help but smile at him, and his own smile broadened as he saw her do so. "There we go. See, you're beautiful just how you are. Don't forget it."

He kissed her forehead lightly. Clara sighed again, contentedly this time, and allowed his other arm to encircle her and pull her into a hug. Now, _this_ was one thing her being short was good for. Cuddles with the Doctor were terrific. She could snuggle in close to him and rest her head under his amusingly large chin, and feel safe and secure as long as he was there with her. "Thanks, Doctor."

"Don't mention it." They sat there cuddled up together as the TARDIS hummed softly around them. Yes, Clara would always be a little annoyed about being short. But her Doctor liked it, and if it made him happy… well, it was good enough for her.

 **Being myself a member of the short person club, I felt amused whilst writing this chapter. I'm a little taller than Jenna Coleman but also male, which to me makes it worse somehow. POVs will continue to alternate throughout this series of oneshots, so I'll probably make the next chapter from the Doctor's. Keep reading, and feel free to prompt me to write the chapters you want to see. Hope you're enjoying things so far :)**


	3. Chapter 3: Who's In Charge?

**Chapter Three: Who's In Charge?**

Brow furrowed, the Doctor ran the tip of the sonic screwdriver along the edge of the doorframe. He watched the green light flash in desperate hope, praying it would work. _Come on, come on…_

The sonic bleeped loudly. The light clicked off. He tested the door. It stayed shut. Just as it had the previous dozen times. The Doctor sighed and kicked the door in frustration. It clanged dully, but budged no more than it had for the sonic screwdriver.

"Well, this is just wonderful," he said dryly, turning to his companion. Clara's eyes were wide with concern; she sat against the far wall with her arms wrapped round her knees, face pale and worried. On any other occasion, seeing her fear would have made him want to try and make her feel better in some way. Now, though, he was too angry with her to even consider how she was feeling. "Deadlock seal. The sonic doesn't work on it. We're trapped here."

Clara paled even further. "Can't you do anything about it?"

"If I could," he said tersely, "don't you think I would have by now?"

He was feeling stifled. He tugged his bowtie off and undid the top button on his shirt, hoping to breathe a little easier. Except it wasn't that that was making him tense. Clara was now looking down at the floor, unwilling to meet his eyes, and he could see guilt on her face. "I'm really sorry," she mumbled.

"Good." With nothing else to do, the Doctor began inspecting the door again. He knew it was futile, but there was nothing else in the room to check. It was a concrete box of about six square metres, featureless apart from the metal door set into one wall. No other possible way out. "You should be."

He hardly ever got angry with Clara. Not when she destroyed his kitchen in her latest misguided attempt at baking a soufflé, not when her squabbles with the TARDIS led to the rooms on their ship being disconcertingly rearranged, not when she got him into trouble with the great and the good of the galaxy with her stubborn Lancashire demeanour. He was barely capable of being angry with her- his temper deflated like a balloon the second she batted her pretty eyelashes at him. On this occasion, though, she'd tipped him over the edge. She'd blundered ahead in classic Clara fashion, and this time, she'd got them in so much trouble that he really did fear he might not be able to get them out of it.

"I didn't mean to," she said quietly. The Doctor felt another jolt of anger shoot through him. So what? It had happened, hadn't it? "I'm so sorry," she apologised. "I've completely messed this up-"

"Yes. Yes you have." He glared over at her. "You've monumentally screwed up this time, and I don't know if I can fix it. Sorry doesn't cut it this time."

Her gaze became stormier. "Well, what else do you expect me to say?"

The Doctor sighed impatiently. "I don't know, actually. Maybe that next time- if there's a next time- you'll actually listen to me and do what I tell you to, instead of just waltzing straight into danger and expecting me to save you."

Clara's mouth fell open indignantly. "'Do what you tell me to?' So, what, I'm just the 'plucky girl who helps you out' and you're in charge?"

"Yes! Exactly!" She flinched. He hadn't meant to shout at her, but suddenly found he couldn't help it. Clara was frustrating sometimes; he usually didn't mind putting in the effort for her, but now he suddenly discovered a backlog of anger he hadn't known existed, and now that it had come unblocked, it was all rushing to the surface. "I'm the Time Lord. I'm the one that actually knows what they're doing. This isn't a game. When you came with me, I told you it would be dangerous. That means sometimes you have to just do what I say, so that you don't get the pair of us killed, and if you can't do that… you can't travel with me."

Clara's face filled with hurt. He found to his surprise that he did not care. "So, what are you saying?" she asked, sounding tentative, as if afraid of how he might answer. "Are you… dumping me?"

The Doctor sighed. "I don't know," he said. "Maybe? If we get out of here- and that's a very big if at this point- we can't keep going the same way."

She looked down at the floor again. "I didn't mean to mess up," she mumbled. "I told you."

"Well, then, maybe that's it, maybe you can't help it. Maybe you're just an idiot."

She looked up at him again. He should have felt guilty at the expression on her face, but his anger won out over his other feelings. It was just like when Rose had gone and saved her father, even when he'd expressly told her of the dangers it posed. Why couldn't people just listen to his advice? "This isn't the first time it's happened," he said. "I know it's not going to be the last either. I put up with it, I put up with you being you and dragging us into danger for no reason, because you're just so excited about the whole space travel thing and I don't want to put a dampener on it. I put up with you being stupid, and reckless, and not thinking ahead or about consequences, and I pick up the pieces any time you mess up, and you know what? I'm sick of it. I'm sorry, I should have said something sooner. Then maybe we wouldn't be in this mess."

Clara's brown eyes filled with tears. Her lower lip trembled. "Is that what you really think of me?" she sniffed.

The first tear snuck out of the corner of her left eye and trickled down her face. He felt his anger disintegrate. How could he have made her cry? That wasn't like him. "Clara…" He approached her tentatively, tried putting his arms around her, but she backed off, wiping her eyes on his sleeve. "No," he said sincerely. "That's not what I think of you. Not at all. You aren't stupid. I shouldn't have said that."

She sniffled loudly. "And the other stuff?"

The Doctor hesitated. "You are reckless," he admitted truthfully. "But… well, so am I. And I get us in trouble all the time too. You could complain about that, you could tell me I'm being an idiot when I am, but you don't. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said any of that. Forgive me. I was angry and I lashed out. I'm sorry."

He reached out cautiously, cupped her cheek gently, tilting her face upwards. She was clearly still making quite an effort not to cry, but there was a hint of wobbly reassurance there. "Do you…" she began. She sniffed again, then continued. "If we get out of here, do you still want me to travel with you?"

There was a tremulous look of fear in his eyes. He'd really scared her, hadn't he? "Of course," the Doctor whispered. "Of course I do, Clara. No matter what. Even if you do get me into trouble. There's nobody I'd rather get in trouble with."

She smiled shakily. She leaned towards him, and he enveloped her in a hug, brushing a hand gently through her hair in what he hoped was a comforting manner. "We will get out of here," he promised. "Like we always do. I just haven't thought of how yet."

He felt Clara nod against him. "Can I at least help come up with a plan?"

"Alright." The Doctor released her and took a step back. He did his best to be professional. "Let's review our situation. We're stuck in a concrete cell with one door that won't open. Not a good start."

Clara nodded, suddenly composed once more. She was much better at this business-like side of things than he was. Part of bossing around two teenagers every day, he supposed. "Okay… what are our assets?"

The Doctor paused. "Well," he said, holding up his lone piece of equipment, "I've got a sonic screwdriver."

"Could you summon the TARDIS with it?"

He shook his head. "Nope. Deadlock seal around the room. The sonic signal can't penetrate it. We'll have to think of something else."

"Okay." Clara picked up her bag from where she'd set it on the floor. It was small crumpled, and didn't give him much hope that it might have a solution to their problem contained inside it. The first item she produced was a small green tube. She wrinkled her nose. "I can offer you a fruit pastille. Expired a year ago, but probably still alright."

"A yellow one, if you would."

She passed him one. It definitely tasted like something that had been lying forgotten in the bottom of a purse, but not like it had gone off. Clara tipped the rest of the contents out onto the floor and began sifting through it with her lips pursed. "Alright," she said. "I've got my driver's license, a power bank, a receipt from Waterstones, my keys-"

"What?" Hope suddenly rekindled inside of him. He snatched Clara's keys up from the ground and began frantically searching through them. The thought of Rose and the day with her father had sent an idea into his head- mad, just a little, but one that might work, if only she had-

"Your TARDIS key!" He prised it off the key ring and kissed the metal delightedly. "Oh, Clara-"

He kissed her forcefully; she started in surprise, barely having time to respond before he pulled away, TARDIS key clasped in his hand. "You're a star," he said.

Clara blinked. "What can the key do? Am I missing something?"

He smiled confidently. "The key is connected to the TARDIS. It's a part of it, and the TARDIS can find it telepathically. If we give it enough time- and I don't see what else we've got to be passing the time with- and wait for it to work, it can summon the TARDIS around it. I did it once before- 1987, at a friend's wedding. Not a great day- I died, he died, you know how it is- but it does work."

Clara began to smile hesitantly, her confidence in him starting to return. "So we're going to be alright?"

The Doctor nodded, relieved to be able to say it. "Yes." He really was going to have to stop being so clever. Clara was going to start thinking he could save her from anything. "We're going to be alright."

 **I felt I had to write a chapter with some actual conflict between the two. Even if the two of them were in a relationship, I imagine they'd annoy each other a lot. This chapter came from my siblings (who loathe both the Moffat era and the whole concept of shipping) complaining about the character chemistry of Clara and Eleven as they thought she was taking over the show too much. I imagine the Doctor probably had misgivings of his own about how often Clara took the lead on adventures. Anyway, feel free to suggest ideas for further chapters, and hopefully you're all enjoying them so far :)**


	4. Chapter 4: After Trenzalore

**Chapter Four: After Trenzalore**

Clara didn't know who she was.

That was the truth of it. Her mind was such a scrambled jumble of alternate realities, other lives and existences throughout the universe, that she could no longer tell what she'd really lived and what had been echoes of herself caught in the Doctor's time stream. It had been some time since that day on Trenzalore- days, weeks, she couldn't be sure. Less than a month but long enough that to her it felt like forever. Forever since she'd woken up feeling comfortable and at ease, since her mind had felt intact, since she'd been functional. She was in hell.

Clara wondered if she might be losing her mind. She'd find herself in rooms and be unable to remember how she'd got there or how long she'd been there. She'd read books and find that by the end she no longer knew who any of the characters were. Once, one morning when she woke up, she realised after a few minutes that she could not remember her own name. She'd had so many of them, so many jumbled anagrams and reconfigurations of the name she'd been born with. Finally she found her driver's license in her coat and sighed with relief as she read the print. Clara Oswald. That was it. It had been right on the tip of her tongue.

Only it hadn't. If she hadn't read it she'd have never remembered.

The fragments of memory that had wormed their way into her subconscious filled her like poison. At night, they'd burst to the surface in her dreams, trapping her in nightmarish worlds that felt more real than her confusing waking existence did. Clara saw herself in guise after guise, all her splintered lives that had been scattered throughout history. She saw terrible monsters of the kind she had never seen before- stone statues with fangs like vampires, shadows that weren't shadows that moved like swarms of piranhas, people with masks for faces that walked like zombies, moaning the same few words over and over. Clara couldn't escape them, she was powerless to stop them and she had no way out. The statues weren't statues; she saw them move out of the corners of her eyes, and suddenly they were tearing her brain from her skull, rearranging it as she heard her own voice speak through her mangled ears. The shadows followed her, stalking her when they thought she wasn't looking, and when she turned her back they tore into her flesh, ripping her apart until there was no longer enough of her left to scream. All night, every night, Clara felt herself die, over and over again. Could she be sure the nightmares weren't real? She felt dead, after all, apathetic and lifeless when she was awake. The only time her heart beat faster was when she woke from her nightmares; she'd scream out into the darkness, cowering in anticipation of the onslaught of her night terrors continuing, and lie there gasping for breath until the primal fear faded enough from her body that tiredness took over once more and she was dragged back into sleep, to die all over again. Dying, constantly, ceaselessly, and always, always for him. For the Doctor. To protect him, as was her imperative in life. Protect the Doctor.

Except now it was him protecting her. The Doctor was what kept her from tipping over into insanity. He was what sustained Clara when she felt as if her life had become unliveable. When she woke screaming hysterically from her nightmares, he'd come to her, eyes full of worry, reaching out to take her into his arms. She'd scream louder, failing at first in the dark and in her delusional state to recognise him, fearing he was another monster there to hurt her. "It's me," he'd whisper to her. "It's only me. You're safe now, I promise." He'd hold her then whilst she sobbed desperately into his shoulder, rubbing in circles between her shoulder blades, keeping her from breaking apart completely. "I- I c-can't cope," she'd sob. "What… what if I-I'm like this f-forever?"

"You won't be." He'd ease her back down against the pillows, holding her close against him, making sure she was comfortable. "I promise. Come on, you need to sleep. Close your eyes."

She'd be reluctant to. She was so afraid of what she might dream about. But he'd coax her gently back down until she was asleep once more, nestled in the crook of his arm, head tucked in against his shoulder. She never had nightmares when he was there.

The Doctor took care of her. She stayed full-time with him on the TARDIS now, whilst she recovered. Clara owed him her life. She may have saved him all those times, but her survival now was down to him. She may sometimes forget where she was, who she was, why they were there and why he cared about her so much. But a few basic facts always stuck in her mind, and she'd repeat them to herself several times a day, just to remind herself why she had to keep going until she got better. The Doctor was there. He loved her. She loved him. That was worth fighting for.

Some days were better than others. On her better days, Clara could remember her adventures with him. He helped her record these recollections on cards, and they stuck them up round the TARDIS, so she could remind herself if she ever forgot. Some days Clara almost felt like herself again, and almost felt like she knew who that was. Others were worse. One night saw her wake in a state of panic- she'd been dreaming about these creatures, tiny microscopic bugs that penetrated under the skin and which were destroying her from the inside. She'd clawed wildly at herself, ripping and tearing indiscriminately, until the door had swung open and the Doctor had entered, catching hold of her wrists and stopping her from hurting herself any further. "Clara, Clara, _Clara…_ it's okay. You're okay. You're going to be alright."

Clara just wept. She felt so pathetic, so weak and fragile. He wept too, she thought, when he saw the damage she'd done to herself. He took her to the TARDIS' medical room, got down a few boxes, covered the cuts that adorned her forearms carefully with plasters after he inspected and cleaned each one. From then on he insisted on cutting her nails every morning, and spent nights with her from the beginning, just to be sure she wouldn't wake alone in a similar state again.

It wasn't a linear process, either. Clara did improve, slowly, as the days passed. With his help she put herself slowly back together. He helped her to forget the splintered memories that were causing her so much pain, and fix the real ones more firmly in her mind. Gradually, Clara repaired the damage to herself, papered over the cracks until she felt almost back to normal. Almost like herself again.

Then one day she fell apart again. The Doctor had let her spend that night by herself. By then her morning routine had been fixed. She got up, showered, dressed, and the two of them had breakfast together. Her daily activities were very relaxed but all designed to gently rebuild her old life. She'd read to keep her mind sharp, write to keep her ideas flowing, would watch the shows and films she'd previously kept up with to remind herself of who she was. When she woke up that morning, though, she couldn't face getting out of bed. Was this all her life was? Pass day after day doing the same monotonous things, sleep to escape the exertion of being awake, consider herself lucky if she made it through a day without having a panic attack or a breakdown? What if she never got her normal life back? What if she was like this until she died?

That thought terrified her. Desolate and disconsolate, Clara buried her head beneath the duvet. She couldn't face life any longer. It was too hard. She'd be better off just staying here in her bed where she at least felt safe, and just waiting for death to take her away.

That was how the Doctor found her, curled up into a pathetic little ball of self-pity. "Clara?" He touched her shoulder gently. "Aren't you going to get up?"

Clara turned away from him. "I can't. I can't do it. Just let me die."

"Never." His face appeared above her- he looked horrified, worried sick, but determined. "I'll never do that, Clara."

Clara thought about trying to explain herself. Explaining that life didn't make her happy any longer, that she had nothing to live for and that she was spent and didn't have the energy to live. But the Doctor wouldn't have listened, even if she had. Perhaps he was something to live for. He'd be heartbroken if she died. She had to be selfless, put him first, like how he put her first. He always put her first. Even today. It didn't matter to him that she'd run out of effort to put in. He'd put in the effort for her.

Gently he guided her to the bathroom. Clara wouldn't have had the energy to be self-conscious as he undressed her carefully even if it had caused her any bother. They'd been lovers before, she thought, though they hadn't slept together as such since Trenzalore. Why should she be self-conscious? She allowed the Doctor to lead her into the shower, feeling the shock of the water against her skin wake her up just a little. She titled her head back and allowed him to wash her hair, massaging her scalp softly, washing the suds meticulously from it. By the end of this his clothes were soaked, not that he seemed to mind. His only concern was her.

He helped her into her dressing gown, then led her back to her bedroom. Clara sat patiently on the edge of the bed whilst he brushed and dried her hair, letting it fall loose and free around her shoulders. Dimly, she recalled the Doctor liking her hair being down. Any time she wore it up he usually expressed his preference for the alternative. Asking for her advice all the while, he picked out a few clothes and assembled an outfit for her, then helped to get dressed. Once finished, he guided her to the full-length mirror attached to the door of her wardrobe, and watched her for a sign of response. "Happy?"

Clara looked at her reflection. Dark rings around her eyes, face pale and taut, lips cracked and dry. But the outfit looked right to her, something she would have picked herself. Her hair looked sleek and lustrous after his careful styling of it. Clara reached out and touched the mirror lightly. Maybe she could recapture this lost bit of herself. Not on her own, but with his help. Just maybe. She had to try. For him. Even if she felt like giving up, she had to try for him. "Happy," she confirmed. She wasn't, yet. But she would be.

And she was, eventually. Eventually, she began waking up feeling like the day ahead was something she could manage. Her mind stopped feeling like a mosh pit of emotions, settling into something clear and sensible. Clara sorted her memories carefully, sifting through them and identifying what they meant to her. She remembered her life, her real life, from being a little girl in Lancashire who looked up at the stars to a woman who explored them for herself. The nightmares stopped haunting her, and she didn't wake up screaming in the night any longer. The Doctor still held her whilst she slept, though. Clara felt immeasurably grateful for him. He'd lived up to his name, well and truly. He was the Doctor, and he'd made her better.

The first Wednesday a month after Trenzalore saw Clara return to the Maitland household. In their time, it had been only a few minutes since she'd left. Clara deflected any and all questions, told Angie and Artie privately that she'd been on an adventure with the Doctor, one that had taken a long time to get through. "But it was worth it," she told them. She smiled at them both, relieved to be able to see them again at last. Sometimes she'd worried she might never be. "I'm so glad I did it."

As per, since it was Wednesday, the Doctor came to collect her for an adventure. Clara walked into the TARDIS to find him standing at the console, bowtie and grin characteristically askew. "Ready for an adventure?" he asked playfully.

It had been so long since she'd heard that light-hearted intonation in his voice. Now, the old, fun Doctor was back. Things were beginning, well and truly, to get back to normal. Clara nodded. "I'm ready."

And at long last, she was. As the TARDIS began to shake around them and the familiar roar filled the console room, Clara felt, for the first time in an eternity, like herself again.

 **So this was the first chapter I'd actually describe as 'angsty.' I was diagnosed with depression in the recent past which saw me stay alone in the house a lot of the time, and writing gave me some recourse to just sitting alone with my thoughts, so I tried to draw on some personal experience here. The next chapter will be fluffy, for anyone who doesn't appreciate angst. Still taking suggestions. Keep reading :)**


	5. Chapter 5: Sick

POV: Either

Ideas:

The Doctor arrives on Wednesday to find Clara is sick. Clara is reluctant to admit this as it is Wednesday and she has been looking forward to an adventure. However she is forced to concede this fact.

The Doctor cuddles up in bed with her- he isn't remotely worried; Time Lords don't get sick, not really, so he's happy to be close to her.

He reads to her, and she falls asleep listening to him.

He makes Clara a cup of tea, and puts a ridiculous amount of sugar in it- two tablespoons instead of two teaspoons

Clara always woke up on Wednesday mornings feeling wonderful. She had done ever since she'd met the Doctor. Wednesday was their day; six days a week, her life was ordinary, mundane, repetitive. She looked after the kids, she did her teacher training, and, well, that was basically it. Then there were Wednesdays. Wednesdays were anything but ordinary. They were thrilling, exotic, at times terrifying, but never ordinary. The Doctor saw to that. Ordinary things just didn't happen to or around him; he was a magnet for the extraordinary, and had managed to attract Clara along with it. She'd been his companion first, then his friend, then his girlfriend, which was hard work at times but always worth it, and him putting in an appearance never failed to cheer her up. Hence, Wednesday mornings always cheered her up, too.

Except for this one. This Wednesday morning saw Clara wake with a splitting headache. She slammed down the snooze button on her alarm clock and pressed her head back down against the pillow, hoping a little longer in bed might make her feel better. It didn't. In fact, lying down simply made her feel worse- her airways were blocked up and her face felt like an airbag had expanded inside it. Grimly, Clara dragged herself downstairs, took some painkillers, got herself a glass of water, stumbled back into bed and tried to convince herself she was feeling better. She had to feel better. It was Wednesday, Wednesday meant adventures and saving planets and defeating alien menaces. She couldn't do all that if she was sick. So she had to feel better. She had to. But aside from the stabbing pain in her head diminishing to a dull ache, Clara's symptoms didn't alleviate one bit. She burrowed miserably back under the covers and did her best to ignore how rubbish she was feeling, in the vague hope that if her illness saw that it wasn't getting any attention, it might get bored and drop its act.

A few minutes later, the usual cacophony of the Maitland household waking up and getting ready for work/school began. Clara did her best to tune out the sounds of Angie and Artie's typically bickering voices as they converged at the top of the stairs and continued their battle down into the hallway and into the kitchen. Clara felt sometimes a little bit like the UN overseeing the conflict of two warring nations, looking after Angie and Artie. The pair were engaged in a long and bitter conflict which had begun further back than anyone could remember, including, oddly enough, their father. If there had been a Geneva Convention on the rules of sibling warfare, the pair would have been guilty of every breach imaginable. They launched regular attacks on one another throughout the day, battling to gain ground on hotly contested frontlines such as whose turn it was to empty the trash cans in the bedrooms (why everybody couldn't just empty their own Clara did not know) or whose fault it was that neither of the pair had their homework done. Clara pressed her face into her pillow and tried to ignore the noise.

The bickering down below reached a crescendo. She heard what sounded like several questions in quick succession, someone replying in an indignant tone, then several words she was positive neither of the pair had learned inside the walls of their household, and the sound of a door slamming. A moment later came the sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs, and then her door flew open and Angie burst in. "Clara," she asked urgently, "have you seen my phone charger anywhere?"

Clara groaned and sat up. "No. No, I haven't." She gazed blearily at Angie, whose expression now had a touch of concern about it.

"Are you alright?" she asked. "I mean when I saw you weren't up I thought you might have just slept in…"

Clara shook her head groggily. "I'm feeling a bit sick. Sorry. I'll give it to you if I see it."

"Okay." Angie made her way back out. "Hope you feel better soon."

The door shut once more. Clara flopped back down with a sigh. Yep. So did she.

The house emptied soon after that, and she was left alone. About an hour later, she heard the familiar roar of the TARDIS materialising outside. For once it didn't make her heart flutter the way it usually would have done. Normally, she would have rushed out to the blue box, burst inside, kissed her adorably ruffled extra-terrestrial boyfriend and the two of them would have been off together to see the stars. Today, she just didn't have the energy. She lay in bed feeling miserable as the minutes ticked by. After about ten of them, she heard a knock at the door. Then another, more insistently this time. Clara couldn't even be bothered answering it. A couple of minutes after that, her phone began ringing, the painfully shrill electronic ringtone blaring out horribly loudly. She opened up her lock screen and pressed the phone to her ear. "Hi, Doctor."

"Clara." He sounded typically chirpy, but a tad anxious at her failure to put in an appearance. "Are you in? I'm waiting outside-"

"I'm in bed." Clara sat up with a groan. "Ugh-"

"Are you sick?" Now he really did sound anxious. She could almost picture him, all worried. She didn't want to worry him.

"I'm fine," she lied. "Hang on, give me a minute to get dressed-"

"You stay there," he said firmly. "I'm coming up to see you."

He hung up abruptly. Clara groaned once more. She stayed sitting up, trying to make herself look as not sick as possible, as she heard the front door be unlocked by the Doctor's sonic screwdriver, and then the sound of footsteps hurrying up the stairs. A moment later the door swung open and he appeared, expression just how she'd imagined it; eyebrows crinkled and eyes wide with worry as he made his way over to her. "How do you feel?" he asked nervously. "Sick? Feverish? Are you-"

"It's nothing." Clara did her best to smile. In truth his worry was rather touching, though he was overreacting just a little. "I'm fine, seriously, just a little off-colour-"

"No you're not," he said firmly. "You look dreadful."

Clara snorted. "Wow. Thanks."

He cringed. "I mean, you look… well, ill." His brow furrowed in intense thought. "Right," he said in a serious manner, "bed rest, plenty to drink, make sure to keep warm…"

He counted these off on his fingers as he spoke. "You humans are complicated sometimes," he added, almost speaking to himself at this point. "Very fragile. So, I'll get you a glass of water, maybe a hot water bottle as well, you're _certainly_ not going anywhere today…"

He made his way towards the door. Clara blinked- she'd zoned out there for a second, distracted by her sore head, and was rather alarmed to see the progress he'd made without her. "Hang on," she said, raising a hand, "I haven't even told you my symptoms yet."

The Doctor paused. "Good point," he conceded. "So, how do you feel?"

Clara considered. "Rubbish," she admitted. "Like my face is full of sludge. My head hurts. I can only really breathe through my mouth. I mean it's probably just a cold…"

She tried to shrug, then stopped because it made her head hurt more. "I'll be fine," she said nonchalantly. "Come on, you head on down to the TARDIS, I'll get dressed-"

"Absolutely not." The Doctor shook his head. "You're sick, that means you're staying in bed and I'm looking after you."

Clara made a face. "But I _can't_ be sick," she complained. "It's Wednesday. Wednesday's adventure day. _Our_ day. I don't want to stay in bed. I can't stay in bed on Wednesday."

"Well, you can't go fighting aliens when you're not well."

"Sure I can." Clara shrugged again, then groaned as a spike of pain stabbed into her brain. "Ugh. Maybe I'll give the aliens my cold, like in _War of the Worlds_."

He shook his head once more. "There'll be other Wednesdays. Today you need to relax. I'll make tea."

There was no arguing with him. "Milk and two sugars," Clara mumbled as he disappeared out the door. She flopped down grumpily against the pillows. She couldn't waste one of their Wednesdays like this. Her life was boring enough the rest of the time, she couldn't spend a day with the Doctor staying in bed. Well... at least not in this context…

Then again, his concern was touching. She didn't like to make him worry, but it was rather nice having someone fuss over her. Nobody had really done that since her mother had died. _Great, now I'm comparing the Doctor to my mother._ Well, at least being sick might not be quite so bad if she had him for company.

The Doctor returned soon after armed with an arsenal of comfort items. He set down next to one another two mugs, one of tea, one of Lemsip, alongside a glass of water with ice. Next to those in true patient-visiting fashion landed a bunch of red grapes. Clara hadn't even been aware they had grapes in the house. Maybe he'd nipped off to get them in the TARDIS, though she would have expected to hear him leave. He continued to bustle about in somewhat manic fashion, stuffing more pillows behind her and fluffing them up considerately, tucking the duvet more closely round her; a hot water bottle in a fluffy covering landed in her lap. Feeling too sick to bother arguing, Clara tucked it in against her side- it was pleasantly relaxing, as a matter of fact, though she couldn't help but feel it was all just a little bit over the top. "As of yet," she said sarcastically, "the prognosis isn't terminal. There's no need to-"

"There's every need." Done with his ministrations for the moment, the Doctor sat down on the edge of her bed. "You-" he placed a hand gently on her forehead "-are my wonderful travelling companion and girlfriend, and that means I'm fully within my rights to make a fuss of you whenever I see fit."

He plucked off a grape from the bunch beside her and popped it into his mouth with a thoughtful expression. Even in her miserable state, Clara couldn't help but smile. He was wonderfully endearing at times. "Well, when you put it that way…"

She'd seen the Doctor look after people all over the galaxy. Those in need, the weak, the helpless, the lost, the scared. He was great at it. She'd almost forgotten that sometimes, it was alright for him to look after people a little closer to home as well. Clara reached out for the mug of tea and brought it to her lips. "Thanks, Doctor. Sorry for making you spend your Wednesday… well, like this, I suppose."

"Nonsense." He scooted a little closer to her on the edge of the bed. "I wouldn't spend it anywhere else."

She blushed just a tad, but her smile broadened in a bashful manner. She took a sip of her tea, then made a face. "How much sugar did you put in this?"

The Doctor raised his eyebrows. "Two spoonfuls? Like you said?"

Clara raised her own in turn. "Two teaspoonfuls?"

His nose wrinkled. "Teaspoonfuls?" he repeated. "That's ridiculous, you'd barely taste two teaspoonfuls. Two tablespoonfuls."

Clara looked from him to the mug of tea, then rolled her eyes and set the mug back down. Just one of those Doctor things. "I'm sorry," he said apologetically. "Here, I'll go make you another-"

"It's fine," Clara said.

"But I-"

She leaned forwards and kissed him. He jumped a little in surprise, but kissed her back unquestioningly if with perhaps a little more gentleness than he usually would have done, his hands doing their usual thing and winding into her hair. She'd only really done it to shut him up, though it was rather enjoyable now it had started, and she didn't really want it to end. Still, she couldn't currently breathe through her nose, and eventually she had to surface for air. "It's fine," Clara repeated gently once more. "Thanks for caring."

She sat back against the pillows. "I probably just gave you my cold," she added apologetically. "Sorry about that."

The Doctor smiled. "Time Lords don't get sick. Well, not very often, anyway. And travelling in time is good for your health, the time vortex kills most of those pesky little germs. I'll be fine."

She loved the Doctor's smile. It was always just a little sheepish, quite charmingly so, and it went well with the ruffled look she'd managed to give to his hair. "Come here," she said, patting the space beside her.

The Doctor looked unsure. "I'm not sure that's the best idea," he said slowly. "You humans are delicate when you're sick, you probably need space to be comfortable-"

"I'd rather have you." Clara beckoned with her index finger. "Come on, I wasn't going to ask until you said you won't get sick. It's your own fault."

He thought for a moment, then conceded and made his way round to the far side of the bed. He discarded his tweed jacket and slipped under the covers beside her. Clara evenly distributed the pillows out, then snuggled in beside him, inadvertently squashing the hot water bottle between the pair of them. "Sorry." She tossed it aside and cuddled up more closely to him. "See? This is just what I needed."

He brushed a hand softly through her hair as she rested her head against him. "Alright," he accepted. "But you're still to settle down and rest. Doctor's orders," he added with a wink.

Clara smiled easily. Somehow she felt better already with him there beside her. "I'm not sleepy," she said. "I'm tired, but I'm not sleepy, if you know what I mean."

"Would you like me to tell you a story?"

Clara raised her eyebrows. "Doctor, I know I'm a lot younger than you, but I _am_ still an adult."

"I know." He looked sideways at her. He was serious, she realised with some surprise. "But you're always asking me to tell you more about what I did before I met you."

Clara considered. "Alright," she said. "Will you be offended if I do fall asleep?"

"On the contrary, that's the whole point." The Doctor's brow furrowed as he slipped an arm around her to draw her closer to him. "Now, let me see… oh, I know. A story from a long time ago. About seventy years in your time, a bit over two centuries in mine, back when I had big ears and an accent like yours… it's a bit of a spooky one, but it has a happy ending, I promise."

He began to talk earnestly about a girl named Nancy, about a conman from the future and how in the future there was a planet which used to hold weapons factories, but which now was covered in banana groves. It was terribly interesting, actually, though his soft tone of voice drew all the tension out of her, relieving her symptoms better than any medication. Gradually, Clara moved off of the pillows until she was just resting her body against his, the pair of them tucked under the duvet with his arm clasped loosely round her, free hand stroking her hair as he continued to tell his story. She remembered closing her eyes, but couldn't be entirely sure when she drifted off to sleep- his story wove its way into her dreams, spooky as he said but pleasantly uplifting in its way. Her last waking thought, straying to the fore of her hazy mind whilst the Doctor spoke softly in her ear, was that if the Doctor, as he said now, really did know how to dance, he'd have to take her out for one someday.


	6. Chapter 6: Fooling Around

Of all the feelings Clara had been expecting, _amusement_ was not one of them.

She was kissing the Doctor. They were sitting languidly in the TARDIS' console chair, comfortable and at ease and wholly innocent. At least, that's how it probably appeared on the surface. In the kiss' own little world, however, Clara could sense just beyond her reach the feeling of undeniable tension. This was as far as anything had gone between them as of yet. The pair of them were far too civilised to voice anything that might have hastened along the process, but there was no getting past that latent fact nonetheless. Any thought on the matter previously had brought feelings of uncertainty, curiosity, wariness and intrigue- as it would do, obviously- but _now_ , caught in the actual moment, Clara found herself under a strange compulsion to giggle. It was the Doctor. And it was... well, and it was the _Doctor_.

Something deeper started to take root in their kiss. None before this had ever been more than playful; this was uncharted territory. It felt nice. Good. Entirely as it should. She would have been happy to stay like this forever, gently together with his hands touching loosely on either side of her waist…

Then they made straying motions upwards, underneath her top. Something jumped inside Clara's brain. She couldn't help it. She laughed, interrupting the kiss, and they broke off, leaning back, him in confusion, her in a spate of giggles. "What is it?" the Doctor asked. He seemed concerned. Clara hastened to make a straight face. Why had she laughed? There'd been nothing to laugh at. Had there?

"It's nothing," Clara said nonchalantly. "Come on. Where were we…"

She scooted back over, making herself the assertive one, taking hold of his lapels firmly. She did her best to focus this time as she initiated the contact. All normal, all good. The Doctor's lips tasted of nutmeg and the tang of the time vortex, they were soft as she allowed them to part her own. His touch was light and cautious, pleasant and reassuring through the fabric of her top. And… and now it was straying upwards, tentatively but with purpose. Alright. That was okay. It was normal. Just a natural progression of how they…

And now his hand was on her boob. Nope. She couldn't. Clara broke away as another fit of giggles came upon her. "What?" She wasn't able to look the Doctor in the face at this point, but his tone sounded a touch indignant, and maybe a bit self-conscious. "What's wrong?"

Nothing. Nothing was wrong. Clara chastised herself, marshalling her thoughts as she tried to get her giggles back under control. There was nothing wrong with what she and the Doctor were doing. It wasn't that she didn't enjoy it, it was just that… it was the _Doctor_. The Doctor didn't touch people like that. He rambled about time paradoxes and made speeches about bravery and ran away from aliens, he most _definitely_ didn't do… well, _that_.

Saying that out loud, though, she felt, wouldn't be the best course of action. "There's nothing wrong," she promised. "Just... I'm not sure, I'm probably just nervous."

The Doctor's green eyes flickered. "If you aren't comfortable we don't need to-"

"No, no, I am," Clara insisted. "It's- it's just-"

She thought for a second, then gave it up as a bad job. "Oh, just come here." She grabbed the front of his waistcoat this time and tugged him towards her. Right, this time, she'd focus on what _she_ was doing. Never mind what the Doctor was; let him worry about that. She took the lead this time, deepening the kiss from cursory to intimate. This was good. Nutmeg and time travel. She was enjoying herself. She wasn't even thinking about where he-

Thigh. Slowly, and with even more care than before, but that was where it was. Clara burst out laughing for a third time. The Doctor drew away, eyes widening. "I'm sorry," she apologised between laughs once again. "I don't know why-"

She stopped. That was hurt in his eyes. Her laughter vanished in a moment. "Am I doing something wrong?" he asked awkwardly. "I mean is- am I not…"

He trailed off. Clara sighed. She'd have to say something. "It's nothing like that," she said. "It's just… well, it's you. I mean, it's… well, I mean it's _you_."

The Doctor looked embarrassed. "And that's a bad thing?"

"No! Oh, no, that's not what-" Oh, she was making such a mess of this. Why couldn't this just go normally? But then, nothing would ever be normal with her and the Doctor. It just wouldn't be. "Okay," Clara began again, trying to sort her words into something approaching cohesion. "What I mean is… well, what we were to each other for a long time was just not… _physical_ … at all, so I suppose that makes taking this step, for me, feel a bit… hard to get used to."

She watched the Doctor for any sign of a reaction. "Right." He blinked slowly. Blush coloured his cheeks. "Alright."

Without even seeming to realise he was doing it, he turned away from her, gaze lowering to the floor. Clara's stomach lurched uncomfortably; oh, _no_ , this wasn't what she'd meant at all. She still _wanted_ to, she was still loving what this was as much as he was- couldn't she find some way to articulate that?

Tentatively, Clara scooted over beside him again. The Doctor looked uncomfortable, but didn't try to prevent her approach. "Okay," she said gently. "I've been honest with you. But if- if I find this a little… surreal, or hard to get used to, it's only because you've been such a wonderful friend up until this point that it's hard to get used to that changing. The most amazing things to have happened in my entire life, you were what made them all happen. And now, it's almost hard to believe we're doing something so… _normal_. I'm not laughing at you. I'm laughing at _us_ , at how crazy all of this is. But the craziness is why I love it." She reached out across him to take his hand in hers. "It's why I love you, too."

The Doctor's eyes flickered to hers. A moment passed, and then he smiled cautiously, and the pressure that had been building in her chest released with a sigh of relief. "Oh, Clara…"

His cheeks were still red, but his tone was fond. His smile became a little embarrassed. "I know… I mean, I know this isn't the best-looking face I've ever had…"

She pressed a silencing finger to his lips. "Now you're just fishing for compliments."

Clara met his eyes. They were nervous, but just a little hopeful. This time when they kissed, it felt right. Awkward, sure. It was slower to build than those before had been. But something seemed to click where it hadn't before. It held Clara's focus in a way what had come before had not. This time she was calm. It was easier, somehow, now. The Doctor needed her to take the lead this time, so she did.

He was very shy now. She left a soft little nip at the edge of his lower lip that drew a squeak of surprise. Clara giggled again, but she was joined by him this time, a sweet vibration against her lips as she felt him relax. Clara pulled back; she felt momentary disappointment emanate from him, but his countenance changed as she got up, holding his hand loosely in hers, and motioned with her eyes towards the corridor. The Doctor blushed. "Are you sure?" he asked.

"I'm sure," Clara replied gently.

"Oh." There was a pause. Then he began to grin bashfully. Clara smirked. "Come on," she said, pulling him along in her wake, off towards her bedroom.


End file.
